


Symbols

by beng



Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Arbor Wilds, Gen, Minor Character Death, Vallaslin (Dragon Age), Vir Atish'an
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: Martin attempts to smile at his teacher. “I’m seventeen. One more year to go till I’ve earned my vallaslin.”“I am dying, my boy,” Keeper Iveanis says simply. “Let me give you this one parting gift. And know that you have earned it fully.”
Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080431





	Symbols

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [30 Days OC challenge](https://luinquesse.tumblr.com/post/187518711282/30-days-oc-challenge) by luinquesse.  
> This takes place some 3-4 months before the Fifth Blight.

It is the sixth day since the massacre. Martin has buried his aunt Ashareva, her husband, her three children, his few friends, and the rest of Clan Ralaferin. Only he and Keeper Iveanis have survived, but the loss has been too hard a blow for the old loremaster. Martin knows that his passing is just a matter of a few short days at most.

The abomination that caused all this is trapped with powerful sigils and bound tightly to an ash tree nearby. Martin has not given him any food or drink all this time, and this is the first day that his raving has quieted. Every now and then what might appear as sanity and regret cross the abomination’s face, but Martin, his hands in bloody wraps covering the bruises and blisters from six straight days of digging graves, cannot find it in himself to do anything with this observation.

(There is a lead weight somewhere in his chest, and the pain will come sooner or later, but for now he is empty, he is numb, his eyes are dry and he is silent as the trees in winter.)

“You still need your vallaslin,” the old Keeper rasps, sitting hunched over by their small fire. “I would not leave you bare-faced, da’len, cut short as my care of you has been.”

He coughs, and Martin wordlessly wraps a knitted blanket around his frail shoulders. It is the height of summer in the Arbor Wilds. They had been away gathering herbs, as part of Martin’s ongoing training, when the madman came upon their camp.

“Don’t worry about me, Keeper. You have to save your strength,” Martin murmurs. He doesn’t know what he will do after this. Where would he even go? 

(He will think about it later.)

He attempts to smile at his teacher. “I’m seventeen. One more year to go till I’ve earned my vallaslin.”

The Keeper glances around the destroyed remains of the camp — the overturned aravels, the scattered belongings, the few remaining halla huddled together near their trough of water, at the abomination seemingly passed out in his binds behind a massive barrier spell. He leans forward and takes Martin’s bandaged hands gently in his.

“I am dying, my boy,” he says simply. “Let me give you this one parting gift. And know that you have earned it fully.”

Suddenly finding his throat tight, Martin can only nod mutely.

With fumbling, inexperienced hands and much doubt, the preparations take him half the night, while the Keeper sleeps fitfully by the fire. They start the ritual in the morning, with the silent abomination as the only witness. There is no singing, no teasing from his friends; there’s only the barest of offerings to the goddess whose path Martin had known he would choose when the time came.

There is little pain, or maybe he’s just too numb at this point. The Keeper’s wrinkled, gentle hands are shaking lightly, and it takes till the evening to get the lines on Martin’s face. They eat some of what Martin can still find in the clan’s ruined stores, and then continue. Keeper Iveanis needs to rest more and more as the vallaslin takes shape. Finally, around midnight, he sighs and runs a soft cloth infused with elfroot over Martin’s face one last time, wiping away the thin trickles of blood.

“It is done. Let Sylaise watch over you and your path, da’len. Let she guide you to a new home and hearth.”

Martin sits with him by the fire, head leaning on his teacher’s shoulder. He feels it when, towards the morning, Keeper Iveanis sighs a shivery breath and then slumps bonelessly forward. His teacher is gone. 

It is the ninth day, when the abomination, clear-eyed and grim, and his mind free of whatever had possessed it, helps Martin dig the final grave. The man's magic is acting up a bit, but he manages to push all the scattered things and useless aravels together, while Martin herds away the halla and sets aside any valuables and historic artefacts entrusted to Clan Ralaferin. 

As Martin casts a firestorm over the remains of his clan’s belongings, watching the flames consume what has been his home for a decade, the abomination asks why Martin hasn’t killed him for what he did.

Martin opens his mouth to answer, and finds he doesn’t know what to say. Is it mercy, or undeserved soft-heartedness? Is it because his death won’t bring back Martin’s clan? Because he doesn’t want to turn from the path of peace he just committed himself to? To sully his teacher’s last gift to him? Or because he wants the man to live with what he did and find that answer himself?

With the Hearthkeeper’s vallaslin fresh on his face, Martin watches his home burn and finds he owes no explanation to a bare-faced stranger.


End file.
